295 | But Heaven preserve Old England from such courses! |
Or what becomes of damage and divorces? | |
XXXVIII | |
However, I still think, with all due deference | |
To the fair | |
That married ladies should preserve the preference | |
300 | In |
And this I say without peculiar reference | |
To England, France, or any other nation – | |
Because they know the world, and are at ease, | |
And being natural, naturally please. | |
XXXIX | |
305 | ’Tis true, your budding Miss is very charming, |
But shy and awkward at first coming out, | |
So much alarm’d, that she is quite alarming, | |
All Giggle, Blush; half Pertness, and half Pout | |
And glancing at | |
310 | What you, she, it, or they, may be about, |
The Nursery still lisps out in all they utter – | |
Besides, they always smell of bread and butter. | |
XL | |
But ‘Cavalier Servente’ is the phrase | |
Used in politest circles to express | |
315 | This supernumerary slave, who stays |
Close to the lady as a part of dress, | |
Her word the only law which he obeys. | |
His is no sinecure, as you may guess; | |
Coach, servants, gondola, he goes to call, | |
320 | And carries fan and tippet, gloves and shawl. |
XLI | |
With all its sinful doings, I must say, | |
That Italy’s a pleasant place to me, | |
Who love to see the Sun shine every day, | |
And vines (not nail’d to walls) from tree to tree | |
325 | Festoon’d, much like the back scene of a play, |
Or melodrame, which people flock to see, | |
When the first act is ended by a dance | |
In vineyards copied from the south of France. | |
XLII | |
I like on Autumn evenings to ride out, | |
330 | Without being forced to bid my groom be sure |
My cloak is round his middle strapp’d about, | |
Because the skies are not the most secure; | |
I know too that, if stopp’d upon my route, | |
Where the green alleys windingly allure, | |
335 | Reeling with |
In England ’twould be dung, dust, or a dray. | |
XLIII | |
I also like to dine on becaficas, | |
To see the Sun set, sure he’ll rise to-morrow, | |
Not through a misty morning twinkling weak as | |
340 | A drunken man’s dead eye in maudlin sorrow, |
But with all Heaven t’himself; that day will break as | |
Beauteous as cloudless, nor be forced to borrow | |
That sort of farthing candlelight which glimmers | |
Where reeking London’s smoky caldron simmers. | |
XLIV | |
345 | I love the language, that soft bastard Latin, |
Which melts like kisses from a female mouth, | |
And sounds as if it should be writ on satin, | |
With syllables which breathe of the sweet South, | |
And gentle liquids gliding all so pat in, | |
350 | That not a single accent seems uncouth, |
Like our harsh northern whistling, grunting guttural, | |
Which we’re obliged to hiss, and spit, and sputter all. | |
XLV | |
I like the women too (forgive my folly), | |
From the rich peasant cheek of ruddy bronze, | |
355 | And large black eyes that flash on you a volley |
Of rays that say a thousand things at once, | |
To the high dama’s brow, more melancholy, | |
But clear, and with a wild and liquid glance, | |
Heart on her lips, and soul within her eyes, | |
360 | Soft as her clime, and sunny as her skies. |
XLVI | |
Eve of the land which still is Paradise! | |
Italian beauty! didst thou not inspire | |
Raphael, | |
With all we know of Heaven, or can desire, | |
365 | In what he hath bequeath’d us? – in what guise, |
Though flashing from the fervour of the lyre, | |
Would | |
While yet Canova can create below? | |
XLVII | |
‘England! with all thy faults I love thee still, ‘ | |
370 | I said at Calais, and have not forgot it; |
I like to speak and lucubrate my fill; | |
I like the government (but that is not it); | |
I like the freedom of the press and quill; | |
I like the Habeas Corpus (when we’ve got it); | |
375 | I like a parliamentary debate, |
Particularly when ’tis not too late; | |
XLVIII | |
I like the taxes, when they’re not too many; | |
I like a seacoal fire, when not too dear; | |
I like a beef-steak, too, as well as any; | |
380 | Have no objection to a pot of beer; |
I like the weather, when it is not rainy, | |
That is, I like two months of every year. | |
And so God save the Regent, Church, and King! | |
Which means that I like all and every thing. | |
XLIX | |
385 | Our standing army, and disbanded seamen, |
Poor’s rate, Reform, my own, the nation’s debt, | |
Our little riots just to show we are free men, | |
Our trifling bankruptcies in the Gazette, | |
Our cloudy climate, and our chilly women, | |
390 | All these I can forgive, and those forget, |
And greatly venerate our recent glories, | |
And wish they were not owing to the Tories. | |
L | |
But to my tale of Laura, – for I find | |
Digression is a sin, that by degrees | |
395 | Becomes exceeding tedious to my mind, |
And, therefore, may the reader too displease – | |
The gentle reader, who may wax unkind, | |
And caring little for the author’s ease, | |
Insist on knowing what he means, a hard | |
400 | And hapless situation for a bard. |
LI | |
Oh that I had the art of easy writing | |
What should be easy reading! could I scale | |
Parnassus, where the Muses sit inditing | |
Those pretty poems never known to fail, | |
405 | How quickly would I print (the world delighting) |
A Grecian, Syrian, or Assyrian tale; | |
And sell you, mix’d with western sentimentalism, | |
Some samples of the finest Orientalism. | |
LII | |
But I am but a nameless sort of person, | |
410 | (A broken Dandy lately on my travels) |
And take for rhyme, to hook my rambling verse on, | |
The first that Walker’s Lexicon unravels, | |
And when I can’t find that, I put a worse on, | |
Not caring as I ought for critics’ cavils; | |
415 | I’ve half a mind to tumble down to prose, |
But verse is more in fashion – so here goes. | |
LIII | |
The Count and Laura made their new arrangement, | |
Which lasted, as arrangements sometimes do, | |
For half a dozen years without estrangement; | |
420 | They had their little differences, too; |
Those jealous whiffs, which never any change meant: | |
In such affairs there probably are few | |
Who have not had this pouting sort of squabble, | |
From sinners of high station to the rabble. | |
LIV | |
425 | But, on the whole, they were a happy pair, |
As happy as unlawful love could make them; | |
The gentleman was fond, the lady fair, | |
Their chains so slight, ’twas not worth while to break them: | |
The world beheld them with indulgent air; | |
430 | The pious only wish’d ‘the devil take them!’ |
He took them not; he very often waits, | |
And leaves old sinners to be young ones’ baits. | |
LV | |
But they were young: Oh! what without our youth | |
Would love be! What would youth be without love! | |
435 | Youth lends it joy, and sweetness, vigour, truth, |
Heart, soul, and all that seems as from above; | |
But, languishing with years, it grows uncouth – | |
One of few things experience don’t improve, | |
Which is, perhaps, the reason why old fellows | |
440 | Are always so preposterously jealous. |